I love her,
Even with excessive make up,
She loves dyeing her face and hair,
She adores me, but
She frequently forgets my name,
Even it is always the same,
While In every colour,
Her face and body appear,  
I constantly identify her,
Whatever,
Her face and hair
Do violently change,
Her identical rage,
In very attractive body cage;
Only once I thought,
She was my coffee
In the golden cup.

Silence captured words in your cold eyes,
And passion snuggled to last feeble ties,
And optimism clung to a heart about to die.
O, patience allow me time for a loyal lie.
O, my sweet soul; look at me once more.
Look at me tenderly in peace as before.

Then lie where thou once walked following the turtle to the plain,
While I was watching you waving in the warm rain.
The meadow loved the way you followed the tortoise to the field,
And I loved thy roaming about when it disappeared,
While thou laughed ,and chuckled the green reed,
Then you withdrew your hands and head into thy shell coat,
And lively danced in the pasture of wild oat.

O, my love, the canon was quieted for unpredictable reason,
And the rifles breathed a last fatal treason,
Which bloomed with red flowers on thy warm chest,
See, in the place, thy spring's beauty shone upon the rest;
Me, the anemones, the damp rocks and the merciful death,
And seized my soul and obliterated our life's myth.

Settle in my heart, swoon with my soul
In a human delight, human after all,
Where beauty blooms without bounds
Where flowers dance with no sounds
In a living soft drum, red, red-red;
Beats resonate a rhythm never been heard
With a flow of passion migrates red, red-red.
O, this floods of regular love rhythm,
It counts my sighs in cadence with them,
When you packed memories, body and will,
And departed countries late that evening,
And returned with angels in a dew cell,
On a harvest day, early one dear morning
With songs of birds on kindled wings,
Invisible heavenly bliss, joyfully swings
In meadows cradle that seems still,
A bliss has chosen my heart to dwell,
A human heart, a will with machine skill,
That lives, loves and imitates a drowned bell.

I become a tree at noon, a great tree,
My sweat drips resin with myrrh scent,
As all trees in love, with grades,
Whenever she stands north to me,
Seeking carelessly for shades.

That night, knowing she loves butterflies;
He promised her a visit in fairy disguise,
In doubt that he might, she bought,
Knowing he adores, a sample boat;
Yet she never believed in his fairytale
In the morning, she caught a rare butterfly,
And pinned it onto the white plastic sail,
Then she began to cry, annoyed by his lie.

She lives in my house,
As if it wasn’t my house,
And it became her dearest house.
She occupies my favorite side of bed,
And reads the book I haven’t yet read,
However, I like what I lose,
And the odor of what I feel,
When into my mirror she stares,
And wears the towel I use,
Or walks in the room without a skirt,
wearing my only white silk shirt,
And tells me about her nightmares;
When she persuades me to listen
And believe her voyage to heaven,
Which was so many and many years ago,
In agony, the truth I surly know,
but her presence can’t be unreal,
So happy with the soul of the dead,
Illuminating life in the solitary house.

In every day of my long days,
In every way of my few ways,
I ‘m supposed to figure out,
The untranslatable with no doubt
My destiny and puzzles of fate
Accumulating as they accumulate
Echoes of stares in solitude,
And joys in grieved mood,
And thoughts of my shade,
When in silence they fade,
On my feet estranged
Within my foolishness caged,
I warmly come and coldly go,
Ignorant of what I think I know,
A smile on my lips I draw,
Welcoming unfulfilled fears,
I still have, I know- not of years,
A pale face with sightless tears,
And stream of my confidence,
Despite my victorious pretence,
Fails behind my false face,
Lost among  shadows of my race.